


five times newt said i love you and one time hermann did

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but THIS time it's better and different and keyly. 4k longer., this has been done before. by me in fact.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: The first time, they haven't even met yet. It's doomed from there, or at least, Newt thinks it is.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	five times newt said i love you and one time hermann did

It’s late; the light from the overhead LED strips feel like it’s digging into his skin and his spine and his eyes, and Newt’s pretty sure that he can’t feel his feet or his hands. Yeah, nope, confirmed no feeling in his feet, given he just dropped a pretty heavy box on his foot. That’s...that’s going to hurt in the morning.

Honestly, he didn’t  _ mean _ for it to get so late. One moment, he was going around, checking up on some stuff, and the next thing he knows, he’s standing in his office at...late, early, whatever, past midnight, one? in the morning, according to the clock on the wall, trying to move around the stack of boxes with his equipment in them so that he doesn’t trip over them when he comes in—

“Oh shit,” he mutters, “was that the microscope?”

He bends over; peers at the label on the box through smudged and scratched glasses, vision blurred further by exhaustion. It takes a few moments, but he manages to make out the text, and discover that it is, in fact, a microscope. “It’d better not be fucking broken,” he sighs, and digs around his pocket; pulls out his keychain and slices through the tape to check.

Thankfully, it’s not; he’s suddenly very glad for all the extra packaging they put these things in.

“Alright,” he says, and then has to grab for the desk to steady himself as his vision goes black. “...alright,” he says; again; more of a sigh, this time; and presses the heel of his hand to his eye, pushing his glasses up in the process. “I...I should probably call it a night, huh?”

Predictably, no one answers, since he’s, you know,  _ alone _ , in his  _ office _ , late in the night (early in the morning? Whatever).

Mind made up, he toes the box towards the corner and grabs his bag and heads out the door into the cold, biting night. For a moment as he steps onto the sidewalk, he lets the wind whistle by him without comment, before he pulls his jacket tighter around himself and makes towards the bus stop as quickly as he can.

The late night bus gets there a bit later, which is good, because Newt forgot his gloves and has spent the past ten minutes blowing on them to try and make sure they don’t turn to popsicles. The driver greets him with a small nod, and Newt pays the fare and takes a seat at the back.

The seats are covered in nearly psychedelic patterned cloth, but Newt, for once, barely notices; just slides down into the seat and rests his head against the window, watching the scenery fly by.

Out of habit, mostly, he pulls his phone out; opens the messaging app he and Hermann have moved to, now that the arrival of letters isn’t guaranteed, given the whole, uh, giant aliens attacking more frequently thing. 

He’s glad that he added his (personal, non-work) number at the bottom of one of the earlier letters, because the last one got lost when a kaiju took out one of the mail-carrying planes, and frankly, if he weren’t able to talk to Hermann, he’s pretty sure he’d go spare.

There’s a few messages from Hermann a few hours ago; Newt scrolls up to the beginning (fifty-four messages; he feels like he’s making progress—Hermann used to only send one or two) and begins to read.

By the time he gets to the end—Hermann’s  _ goodnight _ —his eyes are slipping shut and he keeps yawning and he’d give anything to just, like, teleport to bed, a fact which he tells Hermann.

In his head, he can imagine Hermann saying  _ Newton, you idiot, get to sleep _ ; scolding but fond, which is slightly amusing and embarrassing because he doesn’t. He doesn’t actually know what Hermann sounds like? 

(He’s pretty sure Hermann sounds sexy.)

(This is probably personal bias. Just a bit. He doesn’t, like. Care, though. Personal bias away, Newton Geiszler, you funky little scientist. He makes a weak attempt at a one-handed finger-gun and drops the hand into his lap when the effort becomes too much.)

(Newt would redefine  _ sexy _ for Hermann, he thinks, kind of vaguely; fuzzy around the edges but pretty convinced of it.)

And that leads down a really embarrassing few minutes of imagining Hermann talking to him. Usually, Newt’s not like.  _ This _ . Usually.  _ Usually _ . Right now though, it’s late, he’s smiling at his phone as he types away his latest thought, and he’s, frankly, he’s feeling. Pretty okay with it actually.

He tells Hermann about his students, and about the street-food vendor that he got lunch from ( _ i should take you sometime _ , he tells Hermann; without even thinking about it), and about the way the light is hitting the glass. He tells Hermann about the birds that were singing outside his office in the morning and—

_ wish u were here w me, _ he types; and thinks about getting coffee in the morning, like he always does, but in his mind, he also grabs a plain black tea and passes it to Hermann, who smiles softly at him.

“Next stop: Third and Birch,” intones the overhead; and Newt jolts a bit, almost dropping his phone in the process; shoves it in his pocket and straightens in his seat. There aren’t many people left at this hour, but he still feels the need to follow etiquette, and falling asleep right before his stop is  _ not _ etiquette. 

Finally, the bus pulls to a stop, and Newt clambers off; bag over his shoulder, jacket zipped up; hands shoved into his pockets, his breath coming out in half-opaque white plumes in front of him. He really should have worn a thicker jacket. Oh well. Tomorrow, maybe.

The cold makes his fingers shake as he tries to dig out his keys, but he manages it eventually; slots the right key into the lock, the rest of them jangling on the chain, and lets himself into the little apartment and makes a bee-line for the bedroom. He should probably wash up and stuff, but honestly, right now, he just needs to collapse.

He manages to struggle out of his shirt and pants and into his more comfortable pjs, at least, before he curls underneath the covers; sticks his phone beneath his pillow so the alarm will wake him up in the morning.

Only a few moments pass before he’s pulling it out and opening up his messages again and rereading through the ones Hermann sent earlier. He’s smiling, really, truly smiling, warm and content; and, high on the joy of it, he types, quickly.

_ ur my bff herms im so glad 2 know u……...im rly tired rn but _

_ i wanted to say that. bc ur my best friend and u desevre to know thta _

_ ilu herms _

_ gn _

He tucks the phone back beneath his pillow and drifts off to sleep.

The next morning, he wakes with a bit of a headache, his phone alarm ringing, and stumbles into something resembling acceptable clothing. When he checks his phone on the bus, he doesn’t have to scroll through any messages—in the last seven hours, Hermann hasn’t replied, but he’s read what Newt’s written.

In the light of the day, Newt’s chest burns with embarrassment. Of course he just went and fucked up a perfectly good friendship by getting a crush on Hermann, who is...probably understandably discomfited by said proclamation of interest. He’s probably just taking a bit of time to let it breathe, as it were.

Jesus. He pinches the bridge of his nose. 

_ ignore what i said last night _ , he types,  _ sorry, man, i was kind of out of it. sorry. _

A few minutes later, his phone vibrates.

_ Quite alright _ , reads Hermann’s text.  _ We all say things we don’t mean when we’re tired. _

* * *

It’s Hermann who proposes that they meet; in a letter, this time, because now that Hermann’s in Anchorage they write more than text—letter is reliable now that it doesn’t have to fly across the fucking  _ Pacific _ .

Newt has made quiet quips about seeing Hermann a few times in texts and letters before, but he’s never, you know,  _ actually followed up on that and suggested that they meet _ , because he is, a. a coward, and b. doesn’t want to pressure Hermann into anything, because that would be, like,  _ really _ shitty behaviour.

Anyway; the point is, it’s Hermann who proposes it, after three years; pretty stilted, but, hey, it’s  _ Hermann _ , what can you expect—the dude literally talks (well, “talks”, it’s writing, whatever. Technicalities) like he’s from the Edwardian era.

Newt says  _ yes _ , emphatically  _ yes _ , of course he does, he’s like, vibrating out of his skin with excitement about the prospect, jesus fuck, man, seriously, he gets to possibly hopefully maybe  _ actually meet Hermann in person _ .

He’s excited a normal amount.

They agree to meet up at a museum—it’s a regular art museum, because Newt wasn’t able to convince Hermann they should meet up in a museum full of “scientific oddities”, which, uh, fuck you, Hermann, but hey, sometimes you make compromises. 

He’s already bought tickets and is waiting outside; Hermann and he agreed to meet up at the entrance, and Newt’s wearing his dino shirt that says  _ Tea Rex  _ with a tyrannosaurus wearing a top hat, a monocle, and holding a cup of tea so Hermann can spot him more easily.

“We should have just exchanged photos,” Newt mutters to himself, when ten minutes have passed the time they agreed to meet and there’s still no sign of Hermann. “This was a stupid, dumb, idiotic—”

There’s a tap on his shoulder. “Newton?”

Newt whips around to face—

“ _ Hermann? _ ” he breaths; and beams. The other smiles at him awkwardly. Unable to stop himself, Newt blurts, “Dude, it’s like, so good to see you, oh my god, seriously, I thought you ditched me—”

Hermann grimaces. “Apologies about that,” he says, “I took the bus—I thought I’d have enough time, but...”

“Oh yeah,” Newt nods, and places a sympathetic hand on Hermann’s shoulder. “You gotta, like, take the one  _ before _ the one that you would take based on time because things run like two times slower at this time of the day. Uh—glad you’re here, though, man, you wanna go on in?”

“Let’s,” Hermann says; looking slightly like a deer caught in the headlights at the onslaught of Newt’s words.  _ Oops _ , Newt thinks, sheepishly.

He leads Hermann towards the entrance; shows their tickets and gets his wrist stamped. Hermann gives him a questioning look. “It’s so that if you have to leave you can come back if you bought a day pass,” Newt explains, and watches as, after a moment, Hermann hesitantly offers up his own wrist as well.

They walk around for a bit; look at the various galleries—Hermann prefers the still life paintings, which Newt will accept are, okay, pretty good, but c’mon, Hermann, you can’t  _ really _ try and tell me that—

“That’s  _ exactly _ what I’m telling you,” Hermann says, rolling his eyes; but there’s a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Monet is superior to your—your  _ cubist _ artists, Newton.”

Newt sighs; deeply, and far more dramatically than  _ really _ necessary. “Dude,” he says, “dude. I love you, but oh my god, you’re so fucking  _ wrong _ , sometimes, Herms.”

The levity that was in Hermann’s expression a moment before drains. “Newton,” he says, and his voice is sharp, and he’s not looking Newt in the eye anymore.

Newt raises his hands. “I’m not insulting Monet!” he says, “dude I love you and I love that you love Monet, okay, but you’re, like, objectively wrong—”

Hermann takes a step back; and then another. “This kind of thing isn’t  _ funny _ ,” he hisses; and Newt realises he’s shaking, slightly, his hand gripping white-knuckled at his cane, and, fuck,  _ shit _ , oh god, he just—yep, he just—

In what is arguably the worst failure of a brain-to-mouth filter ever, Newt just says, “ _ Fuck _ .”

The other draws a sharp breath; raises his gaze, finally, to meet Newt’s. “I have to get going,” he says; clipped, and unemotional.

“Hermann, no, I—I swear, I didn’t mean—”

“ _ Shut up _ ,” Hermann bites, and turns on his foot and walks off, leaving Newt alone.

* * *

It’s five years later and they’ve kind of started losing to the kaiju. Just a bit. Not like,  _ lose _ -lose but every attack the Jaegers come back with more and more damage and, well, there’s only so much metal the ‘domes can get their hands on to fix them back up, even when they are, you know, literally the only thing standing between the kaiju and uh,  _ all of humanity being destroyed _ , but like, you know, whatever.

That’s why Newt is currently elbow-deep in the latest kaiju sample, hoping he can find  _ anything _ that will be able to tell him the weaknesses that the Jaegers might be able to exploit. It’s, uh, a little bit of a stab in the dark given how fucking  _ different _ each kaiju is from the others, but, hey, it’s worth a  _ try _ .

“Geiszler,” Hermann says, from behind him, and Newt just barely stops his kneejerk reaction of pulling out his arm from the kaiju and elbowing Hermann as hard as he can.

“What,” he snaps, keeping his gaze trained on what he’s doing, because even the slightest wrong movement could potentially stab something that’s  _ still _ for some godforsaken reason pressurised and have it explode and force them to quarantine for twenty-four hours  _ again _ and that’ll mean that Hermann grumbles about Newt’s clumsiness and inability to follow proper regulations and, yeah, okay, look,  _ he doesn’t want that,  _ no one wants that.

“Perhaps you ought to take a break,” Hermann says; levelly; and, fuck,  _ that’s not fair _ , okay, Hermann  _ doesn’t get to be so fucking calm _ .

Newt takes a deep breath, and then another, hoping that his momentary pause hasn’t alerted Hermann to the turmoil of his thoughts. “Look,” he says, “I know you, like, might not be aware, since you spend twelve hours a day at those chalkboards of yours and probably inhale a deadly amount of chalkdust, but, Hermann,  _ I don’t have the luxury of taking a break _ , okay?”

There’s a silence, and then Hermann says, stiffly, “Well, I’ll have you  _ know _ my work is  _ just _ as important—who do you think coded the Mark I Jaegers, Newton? Who do you think  _ reworks the code from the ground up when something goes wrong with a Jaeger? _ ”

Which. Yeah. Okay.  _ Fair _ . 

Newt pulls a hand out of the sample; makes to drag his hand across his face and then remembers it’s beviscerad, so, uh,  _ no _ , and drops it. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Sorry, that wasn’t—that wasn’t fair of me.”

“No,” says Hermann. “No, it wasn’t.”

The  _ you should know better _ is unspoken; and, yeah, Newt  _ should _ know better,  _ does _ know better, actually, he just. God. He has the worst brain to mouth filter in existence, which isn’t like, an  _ excuse _ , obviously, just. Yeah.

“You’ve been hacking away at the same kaiju sample for five hours,” Hermann says, finally; breaking the oppressive silence that’s settled between them. 

Newt looks up at the clock. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I have. What about it?”

“I think you should take a break,” Hermann reiterates, as if he  _ hasn’t already fucking said it _ , oh my  _ god _ — “I will, as well,” Hermann adds. “And before you get started, the window for the next attack isn’t for almost a week more.”

“...fine,” Newt grunts. “But I’m going to deal with this first, alright? I don’t want it to degrade overnight because I didn’t store it properly.” 

Hermann nods; apparently satisfied, and returns to his own side of the lab.

Twenty minutes later, Newt’s finally got his stuff cleaned up and—

There’s Hermann,  _ again _ . “Is the ‘don’t cross the Line of Demarcation’ rule a ‘do as I say and not as I do’ kind of thing?” Newt snipes, and Hermann, at least, has the good sense to look cowed by that.

“I...thought I’d walk with you,” he says, after a beat. “My quarters are in the same hall as yours, so we’re going in the same direction anyway.”

“Ah,” Newt says, very intelligently, and lets Hermann fall into step beside him, because, actually, he is, unfortunately,  _ right _ , and their quarters are only, like, a few doors down from each other.

After a few moments without talking, Newt says, “I’m—I’m sorry I snapped at you, okay?”

Hermann gives him a startled look. “You already said that,” he replies.

“I know, I just—” Newt sighs. “Look, I...” He pauses; takes a calming breath. “I fucked up our...our friendship once already by having literally no brain to mouth filter, and I know we’re not really friends right now, and you kind of hate me, but...I don’t want to fuck up whatever working relationship we  _ do _ have because of it,  _ again _ .”

“Newton—”

“And, like, yeah, it hurts, because I still love you, Hermann, but I’m not an asshole who’s going to hold that over you and try and force you to return my feelings or anything, okay? Like—like, um—oh god,” Newt groans. “Shit. Fuck, sorry. I—sorry. Like I said, no, uh, no brain to mouth filter, you can just. Ignore me.” He lets out a nervous laugh.

They’re almost to Newt’s door by now; and Hermann sighs. “Newton,” he says; startlingly gentle— _ that’s not fucking fair he doesn’t get to be gentle— _ “I think you should get to sleep. You’ve had a very long, very taxing day, and you’re starting to say things you don’t really mean.”

“Yeah,” Newt mutters, and stares at the floor. “Yeah, I—yeah. Goodnight.”

He pulls the door open, leaving Hermann standing outside, and shuts it as gently as he can, despite the fact that every ounce of him wants to slam it, because that’ll make Hermann think Newt’s upset  _ at him _ , and that’s not fair to Hermann, not in the slightest; it’s  _ not _ fair to him, and Newt, despite what most people think, really  _ doesn’t _ want to be an asshole, especially to the people he really cares about.

* * *

“Jesus,” Newt breathes, staring at the screens. “Fuck, god, shit— _ fuck _ .”

That about sums it up, really, because the data is still spilling in, the news anchor still getting the information; because they’re still standing in front of the screen and watching at the tally of fatalities ticks ever higher as crews discover and identify more and more bodies, and that’s not even taking account the number of people who are dead but unidentified.

By his side, Hermann stands, frozen; and Newt can only imagine what’s going through his head—the attack was within the window, but just  _ barely; _ if it had been just five minutes earlier, it wouldn’t have been, and, god, Hermann is probably beating himself up over that, probably blames himself for the lives lost, because he’s a fucking  _ idiot _ who blames himself for everything that goes wrong.

Hermann’s shaking, just slightly, now; and he mutters, barely audible, “Pardon me,” and hurries away.

Newt, like the nosy little fuck he is, follows after him. 

Hermann doesn’t go very far; in fact, he only exits the lab into the hall for a few seconds before taking a sharp turn to the left and tugging open the door to the bathrooms; the sound of something clattering to the floor echoing a moment later. Newt follows after to find Hermann leaning over the sink, clutching the rim of it with white-knuckled hands, his face pale and head bowed, his cane on the floor.

Newt swallows thickly. “Hey,” he murmurs, “you okay?”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Hermann replies; voice raspy and barely above a whisper, and then does. It lasts about five seconds before he’s dry-heaving, a horrible, painful sound, because, fuck, of  _ fucking course _ , he hasn’t eaten in, what,  _ all day? _

Unable to do anything but watch, Newt just shifts from foot to foot and waits.

Finally, Hermann turns on the water and splashes his face with a single, shaking hand, and then looks up. “What are you doing here?” he asks, after a few beats.

“I wanted...I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Newt mutters, and fixes his gaze on the floor. “It’s stupid, I know, I just—”

Hermann raises a hand. “Don’t,” he says. “We need to get back to the lab.”

“...right. Um. D’you want...I have a bottle of vodka, if you want.”

For once, Hermann doesn’t scold Newt for keeping alcohol in the lab; instead, he just gives a shaky nod; leans over, one hand gripping the side of the sink for support, and picks up his cane. “Right,” Newt says, “okay.”

They go straight for the couch; there’s no point in trying to force themselves to work, right now, and they both know it. In absence of any cups, Newt just opens the bottle and takes a sip and then offers it to Hermann.

Probably not, like,  _ the _ best idea to be drinking right now, but—fuck.  _ Fuck _ . They managed to take down the kaiju today, but they lost a Jager team; two of their best pilots. Newt didn’t  _ know _ them know them, but he still feels the horrid, ripped, aching sensation, like someone reached into his ribcage and tore his heart in half.

“We’re going to die,” Newt says; mostly to himself; and laughs, at it. “Jesus, Hermann, we’re—we’re going to die. The PPDC is funding the Coastal Wall instead of us, for fuck’s sake.”

“We’re not going to die,” Hermann argues; and pulls the bottle back from Newt’s grasp to take another pull; too large, apparently, because he winces and makes a face. “We’ve still got Jaegers,” he continues, “we...we can fight on.”

“But for how  _ long? _ ”

“As long as it takes,” Hermann replies; but there’s a bit of a waver in his voice, and Newt knows, Newt _knows_ they’re thinking the exact fucking _same thing:_ _we’re going down on a drowning ship, just trying to bail out the water as fast as we can_.

He laughs; high, and sharp; and it feels less like a laugh and more like he’s baring his teeth and daring the world to kill him  _ faster _ . “Jesus. You always were a fucking optimist, huh?”

Hermann shrugs; opens his mouth; but Newt plows on. “It doesn’t fucking matter, you know? That’s the thing that I keep getting caught on, that I keep coming back to. It doesn’t  _ fucking _ matter, because we’re going to die, what, in two years? Three? That one cafe I like? It’ll be gone. The shatterdome? Gone. It doesn’t  _ matter _ —nothing matters. If I confessed, if I  _ confessed I love you _ , that wouldn’t  _ fucking  _ matter even if it’s  _ true _ because  _ we’re all going to die! _ ”

By the end of it, his voice has risen high; higher than it has in a long time, and it cracks, a bit, towards the end, and before he knows it, he’s crying; ugly, fat sobs wracking his frame; and he’s glad Hermann’s holding the bottle, because he’s curling in on himself like a collapsing house of cards.

Glass clinks against tile; but he barely registers it. A moment later, there’s a hand on his shoulder; and Newt flinches, not expecting it. “Apologies,” Hermann mutters, and pulls back.

“N—no, I—it’s fine,” Newt manages. “Wasn’t—expecting it.” 

He presses his eyes shut; the tears tracking, wet and warm, down his cheeks; and he tries to breathe normally. Hermann’s hand returns.

“Even if it disappears,” Hermann says—and Newt’s not sure he’s, like,  _ saying it _ , honestly? Because his head right now is going through a bit of a blender,  _ fuck _ —; and his grasp is comforting rather than restricting, and Newt could  _ cry _ , “your experiences have value. The time you spend with the people you care for—that has value, Newton. Our experience of the universe has value, Newton.”

Newt swallows, thickly, and lets Hermann pull him into him; lets himself, for once, curl into Hermann; press his face into the crook of Hermann’s shoulder, covered by the soft wool of his blazer, and cry.

* * *

On a scale of one to ten, telling your lab partner you love him two seconds before you tell him that if you die it’s his fault is like, an eleven. It’s high dickery. Newt would know, in fact, because that’s exactly what he did, which is a fact that he only remembers as Otachi’s weird glowy cool as hell scary as all shit tongue comes in through the smashed in roof of the shelter. 

One moment, he’s this close to pissing himself, the next he’s shrinking,  _ Oh god if I die I’m never going to be able to apologise to Hermann for saying I loved him and blaming him for my death.  _

Which, uh. Fucked up in more ways than one. But he figures he owes Hermann an apology for those, if for nothing else—the bit about love especially, considering the fact that Hermann is...not exactly the fondest of Newt and will probably be slightly creeped out by that. 

Otachi doesn’t eat him, thank fuck; though he only has a few moments to be glad for that as he races back to Chau’s, squinting to try and see through cracked and dirtied glasses. 

Chau, the bastard, has the gall to  _ congratulate  _ Newt, once he gets over his initial surprise at him still being _ alive _ . Newt’s nose is still stinging when the fucker claps a giant hand into his shoulder and booms, “I knew I saw a spark in ya, kid!”

“Fuck off,” Newt mutters, and shrugs out of the grasp. “You have a kaiju brain to get for me.”

That, thankfully, seems to remind the black market dealer that this is, in fact, time-sensitive, and he snaps to it pretty quickly, barking orders to people about suits and oxygen and a whole lot more, but Newt’s not really paying attention, too caught up in sudden onslaught of memory ( _ “—love you—” “—isn’t  _ funny— _ ” _ ) and then another ( _ “—in love with you, Hermann, and I hope you know it’s all your fault, it really is—” _ ) and then, yep, his nose is bleeding, god _ damnit. _

He pulls his sleeve down and dabs at his nose. Were Hermann here he’d scold Newt about it but he’s not so he doesn’t as Newt’s previously white shirt sleeve turns darker and darker shades of red at the end. 

“What’s  _ taking  _ them so long?” Newt mutters; even though he fucking  _ knows,  _ alright, he  _ knows _ , even though Chau seems to miss that and begins to spout off about  _ how they have to pump oxygen into their suits  _ yeah, Chau,  _ I know _ — “Wait a fucking second,” he says, and snatches the walkie-talkie from Chau. “Is that—”

_ Ba-bum. Ba-bum— _

Chau snatches it back from his grasp; but he doesn’t need to be holding it to hear the screams of the workers, suddenly cut short; and he breathes, “Oh my god, it’s  _ pregnant! _ ”

Things kind of go to shit from there, probably, honestly, predictably, given how the  _ rest  _ of the day has gone.

One moment, Newt’s standing and gaping at the fallen form of Otachi, the next, he’s scrambling frantically backwards and slipping and trying not to die as the baby, the  _ baby _ , fucking, fucking  _ chases after them and then Chau sticks a knife in it to prove that it’s dead but it’s not and it chases him again oh god oh god— _

“Hermaaaaaaaaaaaann,” he manages, semi-cheerfully, like someone who hasn’t had multiple near life-or-death experiences in the past like, five to seven hours, whatever,  _ whatever _ , it’s chill, where was he—right. “Hermann,” he says, again, “hey, man, how are you, how’s the, uh, the readings going, the, uh, the kaiju, uh—ouch!” He pulls his hand away from where he’s making some last-minute adjustments with wires on the Pons, which are sparking and just  _ zapped _ him.

“There should be three,” Hermann says, eyes glued to the tablet in his hands, “there’s only two—there should be three...”

Newt rolls his eyes. “Boo hoo, two signals instead of three, hurts to be wrong, doesn’t it, Hermann—”

“I am  _ not _ wrong,” Hermann snaps, “there’s something wrong with—”

“Look, not to interrupt what I’m  _ sure _ is going to be a long and  _ fascinating _ rant about how ‘maths are the handwriting of God’ but like, I gotta Drift with baby kaiju, baby Otachi, god, uh, fuck, has Tendo named it? Whatever, Kodachi, with Kodachi, like,  _ stat _ , ‘cause the brain is  _ dying _ here—”

And then Hermann says something that frankly, frankly, uh, like,  _ flatlines _ Newt’s brain, and makes him almost drop the Pons headset he’s holding.

Hermann looks him in the eye and says: “I’ll go with you—share the neural load. Like the Jaeger pilots do.”

“You  _ what? _ ” Newt half-screeches, “wh—actually, no, nevermind. You’d do that for—with,  _ with _ me?”

“Well,” Hermann licks his lips. “With the fate of the world at stake, do I really have a choice?”

God.  _ God _ . Newt laughs; once, twice, sharply; thinks, again:  _ I love you _ , and hands Hermann the other Pons headset and initiates the neural handshake in three, two, one—

It’s probably bad practice to record a love confession and then a moment later blame the person who that love confession was directed at for your possible death. It’s probably even worse practice to fucking  _ focus _ on that  _ memory _ when you Drift with the person in question.

Either way, Newt gets a solid three seconds of the memory of standing in the lab, clutching the recorder in one hand and the button to initiate the neural handshake in the other and he says, in electric blue,  _ Hermann, if you’re listening to this, it means that I did it like I said I would, hah, take that, I  _ won _...or, or I’m, uh, dead, and I want you to know that I’m in love with you, Hermann, and I hope you know it’s all your fault, it really is. _

He feels the shock; the moment of horror and revulsion from Hermann, and yeah. That’s fair. He could have been  _ way _ more tactful with it, honestly, but he gets the distinct sene Hermann is shocked at the  _ confession _ more than anything else, and that...that kind of hurts, for a moment, before they’re hurtling forward and onwards through the rest of his and Hermann’s memories and then on through the hivemind.

* * *

Afterwards, Newt half drags Hermann back to the physicist’s quarters; a hand between his shoulders. It’s not very graceful, or very dignified, for the people who helped save the world, but then, nothing about them has ever really been either of those things. Newt likes to think that it’s part of their charm. 

“You should probably lie down and go to sleep,” Newt says; looking over Hermann with a critical eye, or at least, as much as he can given Hermann is pretty much glued to his side. 

Hermann grunts; an odd, low sound Newt has almost never heard from him before. “Absolutely not,” he hisses, “I refuse to get into bed covered in—in— _ this! _ ”

Newt can almost picture the gesticulations he’d be making if he had the energy. “Fine,” he agrees, “do you want me to get you your pyjamas?”

“I’d  _ like _ for you to help me into the bathtub,” Hermann says; and for a moment Newt thinks the flatness of his tone is an aim for deadpan sarcasm before he realises Hermann is, in fact, serious about it.

“Oh, uh—y—you sure?” Newt stutters, trying and frankly, failing, to keep his cool. “You, uh—that’s a lot of trust, Herms. You sure you trust me that much, dude?”

Hermann nods. “Of course,” he says. “I’m your Drift partner, Newton, and I’ve known you over a decade—there’s no one i would trust more.”

“Ah,” Newt says, because he’s not sure what _ else  _ to say. He’s, uh, he’s a  _ little bit _ dying on the inside here, and he’s not quite sure he  _ didn’t _ just imagine what Hermann said. “Uh—okay. Okay. Yeah, okay.”

That’s. Yeah, he can do that. “Alright,” he says, mostly to himself, and turns them towards the bathroom. Hermann does, in fact, have a bathtub, which is kind of wild because he’s pretty sure they’re on water rationing? But like, whatever, he’s not going to question it. He sits Herman down in the chair that’s also in the bathroom and turns the water on. 

“How hot?” he asks, after a moment; partially because he needs to know but also because he wants to fill the silence, but before Hermann can even open his mouth, Newt‘s head is filled with a memory of siting in near painfully hot water and feeling it relax his aching muscles, and he mutters, “nevermind.”

Finally, the bathtub’s filled enough that Newt turns it off, and turns back to Hermann, who’s managed to get his blazer and slacks off, but is currently tugging, in vain, at the buttons of his shirt, wearing a twisted, slightly confused frown. Newt has to bite back the instinct to laugh at how adorable he looks. “You want a hand with that, champ?”

“That...would be appreciated,” Hermann says, after a few beats; and Newt kneels before him, unbuttoning the shirt one button at a time.

When he gets to the last one and undoes it, leaving the shirt open, there’s a small intake of breath from Hermann—too small to notice were he not this close; and he looks up to find Hermann’s gaze fixed on him, eyes dark. His tongue darts out, just for a second, to lick his lips.

Newt rips his gaze away as soon as he realises he’s been staring at Hermann’s mouth, because down  _ that _ road lies nothing but madness, and he starts to rise; but Hermann’s already caught sight of it, and he raises a hand to snatch Newt’s wrist. “Wait.”

Newt does; of course he does; and after a moment, Hermann says, “Thank you, Newton,” and then: “I love you.”

Newt laughs. He can’t help it. “No you don’t,” he says. “Dude, trust me, you’re going to be so freaked out tomorrow when I tell you that the Drift fucked with you enough that you thought you loved me.”

Hermann starts. “But I  _ do, _ ” he protests; quietly. “Newton, I—I’m sorry I never told you, I was just—I was  _ afraid,  _ you see, but Newton, I  _ do _ l—”

“Don’t,” Newt snaps; voice brittle; and pulls his wrist from Hermann’s grip. “Look, I made peace with the fact that you didn’t return my feelings ages ago, Hermann, okay? Like, right after you freaked out when I said it and it kind of ruined our friendship—”

“I thought you were joking,” Hermann blurts out; and the sheer  _ shock _ of hearing it is enough to make Newt go silent. “I thought you were making a joke because—because you knew how I felt about you. Especially after—after you told me that you had said it because your inhibitions had been lowered by sleep deprivation!”

“I thought I made it weird!” Newt exclaims. “I just—I didn’t...I didn’t want you to think I was some sort of weirdo, okay?”

He sighs. “I just...I didn’t want things to be awkward.”

“Well, stellar job with  _ that _ , Newton,” Hermann snipes; and then: “my apologies. That was…that was out of line.”

“Let’s get you into the bath before the water gets cold,” Newt says; which is totally avoiding the subject, yeah, because he’s a fucking coward. 

Hermann frowns at him. “Newton,” he says, “correct me if I’m wrong, but—you’re avoiding this because you fear the idea of our relationship changing, aren’t you?”

“Hermann,” Newt says, as calmly as he can, “are you going to take a bath or what?”

“Not until we talk about this,” Hermann retorts. 

Goddamn it. As stubborn as Newt can be, Hermann is infinitely moreso. Better just get this over with. “Fine,” he snaps. “Fine, okay, yeah. Yeah, I’m afraid of it changing because I’ve barely got you back as a friend—I don’t want to lose you, okay? I don’t—I don’t want to, to go on two dates or whatever and have you decide that, actually, you do hate me. I, I can’t do that, okay, Hermann?”

“I highly doubt that will happen,” Hermann says, drily. “We’ve shared a lab for five years and I don’t hate you.”

“That’s—that’s different,” Newt says. “You don’t—you don’t see  _ me. _ ” The last word is mumbled; barely audible, and dipped in shame.  _ I’m afraid that if you look, you won’t like what you see _ , he means. 

Hermann lets out a soft sigh. “You forget,” he says, and taps his head. “I’ve been in your brain, Newton. There’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

God. He’s right, though; and that terrifies him. 

“Please,” Hermann murmurs; and reaches out a hand towards him. “Let me love you, Newton.”

Newt swallows; thickly. “I...okay,” he says; and takes Hermann’s hand; pressing it tight against his own. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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